


Legerdemain

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: sammessiah, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's powers get a little out of hand as they start granting his unconscious wishes.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Legerdemain

It starts out innocuously enough, with things so small Sam barely notices them. An extra shot of espresso free of charge when he buys coffee on Monday morning. The librarian smiling at him and tapping her own code into the Xerox machine so he can make copies. That one night at the bar should maybe tip him off to strange happenings, when there's a line for the men's room and everyone steps aside to let him cut ahead.

But Sam's distracted by bigger things—Lilith and war and protecting his idiot brother. He's training with Ruby whenever he can slip away, learning to find and finesse the slick coating of power in his veins. Leaning to use it for "good", if there's any such thing.

Sam should maybe be quicker on the uptake, but he can't help it if he's got too much on his mind to notice that the world at large seems uncharacteristically cooperative.

 

\- — - — - — -

Even after he begins to notice, Sam doesn't think to _do_ anything about it. Sure it's strange, but what in the Winchesters' twisted existence is anything _but_ macabre lately? The random favors seem harmless enough.

Dean is the one who finally calls it out, and Sam is honestly surprised his brother let it slide for so long. It's going on a week since Sam first caught that knowing, observant glint in his brother's eyes, and they've been fighting about everything else lately: why not this, too?

Dean finally opens his mouth on their way out of a drab yellow diner just off I-90.

"You realize this is the fourth day in a row we haven't paid for breakfast?" he says.

Sam shrugs stiffly, eyes on the pavement. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

"That doesn't strike you as weird?" There's a frustrated edge of challenge tinting Dean's voice.

"Of _course_ it's weird," Sam mutters. They reach the car, and the door handle is cold under his palm, chilled by the brisk gray day. He realizes just before opening the door that Dean is staring at him over the roof of the car, and he raises his eyes to meet the look head on. " _What_?" he demands, and feels his pulse pick up.

Dean blinks a couple of times—purses his lips in that way he has of broadcasting his disapproval—but he just shakes his head and says, "Nothing. Never mind."

"No," Sam snaps, and he's rounding the car before consciously deciding to do it. "No, you've got something to say, then say it."

He's well into Dean's space by the time he stops, crowding his brother against the side of the Impala. Sam feels the heavy anger settle across his face, tired and familiar like a hundred other fights. He already dislikes where this is going, and he likes it even less as he watches Dean collect himself—watches his brother steady himself to meet the challenge.

"Fine," says Dean. "You want to do it this way, then I might as well ask straight out. Are you doing all this, Sam?"

The question stabs low and accusing, and Sam inhales sharply, startled to actually hear it spoken aloud.

"No," he says. "I'm not doing this." His eyes are too wide, his breath too fast, and Dean _has_ to believe him. Sam's got his fingers in all sorts of dangerous shit right now, sure, but not this.

"Right," says Dean, but his eyes are defeated and disbelieving.

Sam lets Dean shove him away and doesn't know if he believes it, either.

 

\- — - — - — -

He's not supposed to meet Ruby for three more days, but that night Sam sneaks out the second Dean falls asleep. He finds her in an empty playground, sitting on the edge of a squeaky metal merry-go-round.

"What's the problem?" she asks him. Her face is barely lit by starlight from the patchy sky, but Sam can see her—and everything else—plain as day. Darkness is relative lately.

"You know what the problem is," he growls. Because she wouldn't be Ruby if she didn't have her nose buried in his business.

"Of course I do," she says. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

Sam swallows hard and stops his approach a few feet off. The sand is slippery under his boots, and his hands find their way deep into his pockets. He forces himself to meet her eyes as he says, "Is it me?"

Ruby smiles—a cold, slicing expression that cuts through the darkness—and she stands in a gradual unfolding of limbs.

"Sam," she says, her voice tauntingly soft. "You already know the answer to that."

"I'm not trying to do anything like this," he breathes, and suddenly he feels completely helpless. What's the point of learning all this control if he's messing with people's heads and not even realizing it?

"Oh, don't be like that." Ruby is close now, a hand on his arm. "Chin up, soldier, it's not that bad. You're not hurting anyone."

"Yet," Sam whispers. Because what if this is just the beginning?

"Come on, Sam, it's not that big a deal." And now she's wearing her best cajoling face. "No one has done anything awful, right? They're just giving you what you want."

"What I want," Sam scoffs. He knows he's not going to get her to see how jacked that is—how wrong on every possible level—so instead he turns around to leave.

"It's not going to go away, Sam," Ruby says to his retreating back. "There are tradeoffs for the work we're doing. There's only one thing you can do."

"And what's that?" Sam demands, pausing to toss the question over his shoulder.

"Learn to control this, too."

Sam leaves her to the shadows, storming back the way he came.

 

\- — - — - — -

For all of thirty seconds Sam thinks about hiding what he knows from his brother. What's one more secret on the list, after all? But Dean called it first, and Sam realizes with a jolt that he's not going to keep this one to himself.

He can't sleep that night, so instead he sits on the edge of his bed and watches Dean. He doesn't even notice the first teasing light of sunrise until Dean blinks an eye open and stares at him. There's nothing but trepidation on his brother's face, and Sam swallows nervously.

"You were right," he admits quietly. "Turns out I _am_ doing it."

Dean sits up slowly, quiet caution in the movement.

"You didn't know?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head. "I probably should have," he admits bitterly. "But I didn't want it to be me."

"So," Dean starts, but cuts off and hangs there like he's fishing for words. There's a question in his eyes that's easy enough to read, and Sam doesn't make him ask it aloud.

"I don't know how I'm doing it," he says. His shoulders are stiff as he shrugs. "Some kind of subconscious suggestion, maybe? All I know is the world is suddenly bending over backward to give me what I want."

Dean snorts and says, "Dude. If _these_ are your secret desires, you're even more boring than I thought."

Sam laughs, recognizing the jibe for the peace offering it is. "Get dressed," he says, moving past Dean for the bathroom. "I need breakfast."

 

\- — - — - — -

It's a gradual process, days into weeks and onward, but Sam slowly learns to recognize the soft sensation in the back of his skull that tells him he's affecting someone with his less-than-conscious wishes.

It's an icy tingle, just a muted hum of cold. It always starts too low for him to register, a minute build from nonexistent shiver to the spreading burn of ice that finally forces him to take notice. Sam slowly learns that once he's aware he's doing it, he can make it stop.

Dean never once suggests they call Bobby about the problem, but Sam can tell it's a near thing. His brother tries to laugh it off—tries to make like it's such a treat never having to pay for things and always getting the biggest slices of pie—but Sam can see the fear in his eyes.

"Do you ever do it on purpose?" Dean asks him once.

"No," says Sam. And even though it's a promise, he can tell his brother doesn't know whether to believe him.

 

\- — - — - — -

The Impala breaks down in a dusty little Montana town, and there's no fix but an expensive part that Dean needs the local mechanic to order. The guy is muttering about how he'll have it shipped overnight, no mention of the added cost. Sam starts shutting the cold away before he even recognizes the sensation, and the man blinks and looks confused. It's a brief moment of disorientation, and Sam watches him take off his faded green cap and shake his head.

"What was I saying just now?" he mutters. Like he can't quite believe what he was about to offer them and can't figure out the why of it.

"You were telling us the standard shipping prices," Sam says, steadfastly ignoring the unswerving burn of Dean's stare.

He sneaks out that night and meets up with Ruby, and it's the heavy routine of practicing with his powers. He sees the flicker in her eyes that's almost an offer, waiting for him to ask for a hit of the blood warming her veins, but that's not what he's after tonight. Doesn't mean he's not tempted, but he sticks to the routine and has a low, quiet headache when he leaves.

He's not all that surprised to find Dean awake when he gets back, sitting in one of the low chairs by the window.

"Where were you?" his brother asks, same as a dozen times before, and just like always Sam doesn't answer.

"You ever think this whole… _suggestion_ thing might be a side effect of nastier stuff?" Dean asks.

"No," says Sam, even though he knows better.

"Really, Sam?" Dean stands, and his eyes are burning as he says, "Because this seems pretty big to me. Having every little thing you want just _handed_ to you? Dangerous territory, bro."

"It's not like that." Sam feels the first hint of panic spring loose in his chest. "I'm learning to control it."

"Learning," Dean sneers. "Learning how, Sam? From Ruby?"

"Dean—"

"Do me a favor, would you? Stop treating me like I was born yesterday."

"What do you _want_ from me?" Sam explodes, and a secret part of him thrills at the instinctive step back his brother almost takes. Dean recovers quickly, his face setting into a hard scowl.

"I want you to _stop_." he snaps.

"I'm _trying_!"

"Not just the suggestions, Sam, _all_ of it. I want you to stop sneaking off in the middle of the night and doing whatever the hell it is you're doing."

And just like that the conversation shrieks to a halt at the same angry impasse they always reach. Sam's teeth grind, and his heart beats a frustrated staccato in his chest.

' _No_ ,' he wants to say, or maybe, ' _Right, so Lilith can take us out at her leisure._ '

Instead, he turns and walks away.

 

\- — - — - — -

It kicks off a weeklong contest to see who can stay silent the longest, and Sam alternates between blind with rage and bored out of his skull. Without Dean's voice to break through the miles, the highway is nothing but a monotonous stretch of hours.

On a windy Friday, Sam lets Dean ditch him at a motel in Nebraska. The continuing silence is itching at both of them, all burningly awkward glances and grinding teeth, and Sam is grateful to have the room to himself as Dean drives off into the night. His brother doesn't say where he's going, but Sam knows there are plenty of bars to choose from.

There's not much on cable, but Sam sits back to channel surf anyway. The headboard is bumpy behind his back, but it's a minor annoyance. Sam kicks his legs out straight and pretends there's anything at all he feels like watching.

He hasn't moved when Dean comes back sometime around one in the morning. The room is dark except for the light of the TV, and both of them stubbornly refuse to look at each other. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean shuffles around the room without turning the lights on—dropping the keys on the dresser and toeing out of his boots as he drops his coat across a chair. The fabric of Dean's t-shirt is worn thin, stretched taut across the angry tension of his shoulders. Then Dean turns and they _are_ looking at each other, so suddenly it hurts.

Sam's not sure which of them looked first, but now their gazes are locked and he can't figure out how to break away. He doesn't want to apologize, and he can't read the expression burning behind Dean's eyes. It's like they're stuck on angry and incapable of deciphering what comes next.

Sam is still trying to figure out something to say when his brother moves unexpectedly. One second Dean is over by the door, and the next he's got a knee on Sam's bed, is lunging closer and not stopping until he's in Sam's fucking _lap_ —straddling Sam's thighs and making denim chafe against denim.

"Sammy," Dean breathes, and leans in with a desperate, rushing certainty.

His lips are softer than Sam expects, full and open and parting in invitation. Sam doesn't recognize the strangled sound from his own throat, or the needy grabbing as his hands find Dean and hold him tight. He rocks up against the heat of his brother's body, burying himself in the kiss and already too far gone to think.

It goes on longer than it should, the hungry friction and the deep thrust of tongues and Dean groaning into Sam's mouth. It goes on long enough that Sam is starting to think they're both wearing entirely too many clothes, when he first notices— _finally_ notices—the frigid buzz of power engulfing the back of his mind. It's so intense he gasps around his brother's tongue, feeling a sick jolt of horror as revelation settles in and he breaks free of the kiss.

"No," he whispers, holding Dean at a distance even as his brother tries to wriggle closer. Sam breathes and forces himself to focus, to shut the power down and away like he's been practicing. It's more difficult than it should be, and he's sweating by the time the last tendril of cold recedes.

Dean's eyes widen seconds later, sliding from startled to confused to freaked the fuck out, before settling on a blank wall so forced it makes Sam's teeth hurt. Sam knows his own eyes are broadcasting everything loud and clear, and he does nothing to put his own walls up. He's too stuck in guilty panic to care what Dean sees.

His brother jerks violently in his hands, pulling away and dislodging Sam's hold, and Dean is off of him in the span of a blink, backing away from the bed in a hurried stumble.

"Dean, wait!" Sam scrambles after him, but it's too late.

Dean is already out the door and gone.

 

\- — - — - — -

Sam has to admit he's due for some soul-searching after that, and Dean's absence over the next couple days—car and all—leaves him plenty of time to wallow in the mess of emotions crowding him in.

The biggest problem, bigger even than the guilt of screwing with his brother's mind, is that Sam has never wanted his brother like that. He's never wondered what Dean tastes like or what Dean's skin would feel like under his hands.

The carpet is a sickly, mottled gray beneath his pacing, the sky an ugly green outside, and Sam realizes he must be wrong or blind—or both. When he forces himself to think it through logically, several points become apparent: Sam already knows he's a _master_ at denial. He's always lived practically in his brother's pocket—with the exception of those three distant years they don't talk about—and they've always been too close. When Sam's freaky mind mojo latched onto his brother, it sent Dean crawling into Sam's lap. Sam didn't want to stop kissing him.

Adding the pieces together, Sam comes to the jolting realization that he _does_ want Dean. There's a territorial hunger burning low in his gut, warm and disconcertingly familiar. It leaves him wondering just how long it's been—and whether or not Dean knew. Sam finds himself staring down a new reality, one where he can't stop thinking about things no brother is supposed to want; and no amount of willful denial can put the unwanted secret back in its box.

It raises another revelation, this one startling and painful, that even if his brother comes back—and he will, Sam's mind insists—Sam can't stay. Not like this. Because of course Dean is right that this mind control thing comes down to the work Sam is doing with Ruby. As long as he's amping himself up this way, Sam risks taking something unforgivable from Dean. He already came too close.

His abilities and his brother are suddenly mutually exclusive. Sam can't have them both, and it's a choice between maintaining the demon Pilates with Ruby or keeping Dean close.

Even though Sam knows just how much is at stake, in the end he knows he isn't strong enough to let Dean go.

 

\- — - — - — -

The sky is dark by the time Sam steps outside, the parking lot silent and almost empty. There are only two or three cars, all parked at the far end of the lot. Ruby is standing by the ice machine, wearing a leather jacket and tall boots, and her expression says she knows what's coming.

He tilts his head in a directing gesture, and she follows him down the walk and around the side of the building. There's nothing but weeds and grass behind the motel, and Sam's steps squish damply beneath him.

"We're done here," he says, voice solid against the expected flash of anger in her eyes. "I'm not doing this anymore."

"It's not like you haven't said that before, Sam." Her tone is snide, but there's defeat hiding behind the words. He knows she can see the new resolve filling him—promising that this time it's real.

"I mean it," Sam says softly. "I'm out. This stuff could hurt someone."

"Please," Ruby scoffs. "You don't _really_ care about that. What has the world ever done for you?"

"You're right," Sam admits readily enough. "I don't give a shit about the rest of the world. Not anymore. But I can't risk messing with Dean's head like that again." Sam's got no delusions of privacy where Ruby is concerned, and of course she already knows exactly what's going on.

"So that's what this is about?" she asks, as if she didn't know already. "Your brother's maidenly virtue? You finally realized you're a pervert, and your response is to give up on everything we're working for?"

"Something like that." Sam crosses his arms uncomfortably.

"No," says Ruby as she takes a step closer. "It's about time you woke up and smelled the incest, Sam, but it doesn't mean we have to _stop_."

"That's exactly what it means," Sam says. The resolve hardens reassuringly in his veins, and it feels _good_.

"Oh, _please_." Ruby's laugh is a high, brittle sound, jarring in the silent midnight air. "Like he hasn't been panting after _you_ for years now."

"You're lying," Sam says, forcing himself to believe his own words, because hope is too goddamn dangerous. "And we're done here."

"Sam—"

"We're _done_." This time he laces the words with power and watches her flinch away. She disappears across the yard and down the street, and Sam's heart is a heavy jackhammer in his chest.

When he turns to make his way back to the room, Dean is standing in the shadows. The sight of him nearly sends Sam leaping out of his skin. His brother is barely discernible through the inky blanket of night, but his eyes flash familiar as Sam approaches.

"Hey," says Dean, voice quiet and careful.

"Hey," Sam breathes. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," says Dean. His mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile as he cocks his head and says, "Come on, let's get inside."

 

\- — - — - — -

The door is barely closed behind them when Sam says, "When are you leaving?" Even though Dean just got back. Even though the car is back where it belongs, just like Dean, and Sam feels something like relief flooding into his chest.

Dean gives him a look like he's crazy—wide eyed and startled—and asks, "Why would I leave?"

Sam doesn't want to say it out loud. "You heard what Ruby said. You've gotta know it's too dangerous for you to stay, man, what if I—"

"We've got too much _real_ trouble in our lives to worry about what-ifs, Sam."

"You don't have to _stay_ gone," Sam tries to insist. "I just need some space for awhile is all."

"Yeah," Dean snorts, finally setting his jacket aside. He doesn't sit, and neither does Sam. "Because leaving you un-chaperoned _always_ goes well."

"Dean, what happened before was…" Sam swallows hard. "I _never_ do it on purpose, man. What if it happens again and I can't stop?"

Dean considers him for a painfully long time, and Sam fights the urge to shift his weight from one leg to the other, staring awkwardly at the floor.

"You using your mojo now?" Dean asks, and Sam lifts his head in surprise, meeting his brother's eyes.

"I… no."

Dean nods like Sam has just said something useful, and takes a careful step closer. Then a second step, and a third, onward until they're standing toe-to-toe. Dean's eyes look bright and enormous from this close.

Sam's breath catches harshly in his throat, his hands suddenly clammy at his sides, and then Dean kisses him. Quick and deep and hungry, all rough edges and ragged want, and Sam is barely caught up enough to kiss him back when Dean pulls away. Dean's breath is heavy, his pupils dilated, and Sam swallows hard, skin tingling with the effort of keeping his hands at his sides.

"How 'bout now?" Dean asks, and it takes Sam a second to pick up the momentarily discarded train of their previous conversation.

"No," he breathes in surprise. Because there's not even a hint of that low, cold hum in the back of his mind. Which means Dean just kissed him of his own volition, and Sam is too stuck on that to properly apply higher brain functions to this conversation.

"This is fucked up, Sam. But it's not just you."

"How long?" Sam asks. Dean shrugs noncommittally, but the non-answer speaks volumes.

"And how long have _I_ wanted it?" Sam asks, because his brother is anything but oblivious, and maybe he picked up on it while Sam was still clueless.

"I don't know," Dean admits. "Awhile. I always just figured you were disgusted. It never occurred to me you didn't _know_."

Sam wants to drag Dean close and kiss him again, wants to map the contours of his mouth and explore every inch of his body. But the look on Dean's face says they're still talking about this, and Sam obediently holds his ground.

"This is fucked up," Dean repeats. "You get that, right? This isn't going to be easy, and it isn't _ever_ going to be right."

"I know," Sam whispers. Because even though he hasn't exactly had time to work this through, Dean is speaking basic truths that are impossible to brush aside.

"I'm not saying we can…" Sam watches Dean trail off into a nervous swallow. Watches as his brother tries to continue, "I don't know if… all I'm saying is we can try. If you want. Okay?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and this time he steps forward and pulls Dean against him in a solid hug, tucking his chin over Dean's shoulder. "Yeah, I want."

And even though it takes every ounce of willpower, including some Sam didn't even know he had, he finally lets go and steps away. He can see relief shining in Dean's eyes, an unspoken 'thank you' for Sam's decision to turn his back on Ruby; and for the first time in months, Sam recognizes a genuine smile settling onto his brother's face.

Sam coughs nervously and rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly awkward and self-conscious and flashing back to the night he first asked Jess out. He suddenly has no idea what to say.

"There's a diner still open down the street," says Dean, and Sam reads amusement in his face. "You want a burger or something?"

"Sure," says Sam. He doesn't really, but he's way too wired to sleep. A late-night burger with Dean is normal and perfect and exactly what he needs.

"Great," says Dean. "Come on. Thomas Magruder is buying."

It's easy and familiar, and Sam smiles as he follows into the night. The Apocalypse still looms ugly and ominous, and Lilith is still out there, but Sam will have time to panic later.

Tonight he's grabbing a burger with his brother, and that's goddamn that.


End file.
